


Duets

by julien (julie)



Category: due South
Genre: Episode: s03e01 Burning Down The House, Episode: s03e04 Strange Bedfellows, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1997-11-20
Updated: 1997-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22901572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julie/pseuds/julien
Summary: Fraser is wholly, sweetly, unrequitedly in love with Ray Vecchio. So when he comes home to Chicago after a vacation in Canada, Fraser is disturbed to find an entirely different man taking Ray’s place and using Ray’s name. As Fraser gets to know the interloper a little better, and learns about the reasons for the switch, he begins to form a new friendship… and maybe even find some comfort in it.
Relationships: Benton Fraser & Ray Vecchio, Benton Fraser/Ray Kowalski
Kudos: 6





	Duets

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** I wrote this story after watching the first four episodes of the third season; it particularly draws on episodes 301 _Burning Down the House_ and 304 _Strange Bedfellows_. It’s my one and only Fraser / Kowalski slash fic! I well remember that the situation was all very painful and controversial at the time, but I did like the New Guy no matter how it all came about. Despite which, I couldn’t help maintaining that Fraser’s One True (Unrequited) Love would always be the original Ray Vecchio. 
> 
> **First published:** 20 November 1997 in my zine Pure Maple Syrup 7.

# Duets 

♦

There was a long pause, and then Ray said, ‘It’s good to hear your voice.’

Fraser’s heart leapt, and he clutched the handset, afraid of letting it drop. A joyous daydream spun its web all in an instant: Ray had tracked him down throughout Canada, telephonically at least, in order to say the words Fraser most wanted to hear from this man. Because if nothing was wrong, as Ray kept assuring him, why on earth would Ray be calling unless it was to say…

No. Fraser knew the difference between dreams and reality, and such a fancy was even more self-indulgent than his current stubbled state of _déshabillé_. After all, his heart had leapt a thousand times before in response to this demonstrative man’s friendship; this friendship that was precious and unique. A person would be unbearably greedy to want more.

‘Listen,’ Ray eventually said into the silence, ‘I want you to have a safe trip, and I will be in touch.’

‘All right, Ray.’

‘You understand that, uh, I _will_ be in touch?’

It was obvious that _something_ wasn’t being said here – but Ray had insisted that everything was fine, so it wasn’t that – and it wasn’t a declaration of love, either, no matter how much Fraser might wish for such a thing. A little confused and a lot yearning, Fraser asked, ‘As a friend?’

‘Yeah, Benny,’ Ray said gently. Fondly. ‘As a friend.’

The line went dead, and Fraser was left suspended there at the top of the telegraph pole, basking happily in the warmth of Ray’s reassurance. If a slight chill of foreboding remained, he forgot it soon enough… It was wonderful to be back in Canada for his vacation, and it was just as wonderful to know that he’d soon be returning home.

♦

Despite the shock and sorrow of discovering that his apartment building and everything in it had burnt down, Fraser found that he was veritably glowing in anticipation of seeing Ray again… He headed for the police station, carrying his last remaining worldly possessions. Dief was following at his heels, occasionally nudging Fraser along with his damp nose, no doubt having missed Ray’s donuts and other indulgences.

Wanting to surprise the man, Fraser almost sprang into the squad room. ‘Ray!’

He wasn’t there. As Fraser asked around for him, Ray’s colleagues all seemed to be acting a little oddly. Fraser kept searching. And _then_ –

And _then_ some complete stranger had the gall to answer to Ray’s name, embrace Fraser, and call him buddy.

During the ensuing few hours, Fraser came alarmingly close to punching a fellow police officer. It was all he could do not to shake the man until his teeth rattled, while loudly demanding, ‘Who are you, and how _dare_ you call yourself Ray Vecchio?’ Fraser had never been so frustrated, so annoyed.

He’d never felt so bereft… He wanted Ray. _His_ Ray.

♦

‘Fraser,’ the imposter said, ‘you got ink all over my fingers.’

‘I’m terribly sorry.’ Fraser smoothly blotted the man’s fingers on a piece of paper.

‘What was that all about?’

‘It’s just a little thing we do.’

‘A little thing we do, huh?’

‘Yes. It’s one of our little things.’ In actual fact, despite his claims of innocuousness, Fraser had been fingerprinting the man in order to prove that he wasn’t Ray Vecchio…

The stranger was smiling up at him. ‘We have a lot of fun, don’t we, you and I?’

Fraser managed a laugh: partly ironic because he was merely playing along; partly pleased because it was true he and Ray had fun together, and Fraser hadn’t realized anyone else knew that; and partly confused because he had no idea _who_ had briefed this man so thoroughly, or _why_.

‘More fun than a barrel of monkeys,’ Fraser confirmed.

♦

Fraser and the man pretending to be Ray Vecchio were soon on the trail of the performance arsonist who was responsible for not only burning down Fraser’s apartment building but the Vecchio home as well. In the thick of the investigation, Fraser quite inadvertently called the imposter Ray; he was mortified at his slip, and relieved when the man didn’t notice.

But later, after the arsonist had torched Ray’s beloved Buick Riviera as well – a turn of events that would greatly aggrieve the real Ray Vecchio, wherever he was – the imposter stepped in front of Fraser as the arsonist held them at gunpoint. And, in the noblest of gestures, the fake Ray took a bullet in the chest, saving Fraser’s life.

Fraser secured the arsonist, who seemed to be in a state of shock, and then returned to the man’s unconscious body. ‘Ray!’ he cried, slapping the stranger’s face in an effort to bring him round. ‘Ray!’

‘Ta da!’ The eyes snapped open, the mouth smiled widely, and the shirt was lifted to reveal a bulletproof vest. ‘You called me Ray.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Yeah, you did.’

‘It was a mistake,’ Fraser crisply informed him. A mistake that cost Fraser some peace of mind.

♦

At last Lieutenant Welsh explained. Ray was on an assignment, deep undercover in the Mafia, and this new man was pretending to be Ray Vecchio in order to protect the real Ray’s identity… Which was of course what Ray couldn’t tell Fraser over the phone. Fraser’s first heart-stopping thought was of the danger involved. A police officer might never return from such an assignment. Not alive. ‘Have you,’ he carefully asked Welsh, ‘by any chance, heard from Ray?’

‘No. No, and I don’t expect to either.’

Understood. Ray was lost to him, lost to them all, perhaps for a long long time.

Fraser’s second thought was that at last Ray’s skills were being seriously recognized and utilized. He felt proud of the man, proud of Ray’s abilities which were exceeded only by his courage – even though Fraser’s third thought was an ignoble resentment, because Ray could no longer be at Fraser’s side… After three years of constant partnership, Fraser didn’t want to face life without his best friend. His love. His secret love.

Keeping his promise, Ray did indeed get in touch with him. A postcard was delivered to Fraser, care of the police station. Ray had gone to a great deal of trouble to hide a photo behind the standard scenic mountain view – a photo of the partners in their early days. There was Ray grinning happily, and leaning against Fraser, whose smile wasn’t really proper for a Mountie in his dress uniform… Fraser stared down at the long-ago image, a metaphorical lump in his throat, realizing in that moment what a true friend Ray was. He did not doubt that Ray was missing their partnership, too. While nothing more than this would ever happen between them, Fraser was content.

Being the dedicated officer that he was, Ray Vecchio had decided to lead a different life for a while. Meanwhile, it behooved Fraser to treat this new partner as a friend in his own right. Or at least begin by making a tentative offer of friendship. ‘Hey, Ray,’ Fraser called to him. They were virtually alone in the dim squad room.

The man looked up at him, his serious expression betraying the significance of this moment. It was the first time Fraser had deliberately given him Ray’s name.

‘Would you, er… would you like to go and get something to eat with me?’

A genuine smile. ‘Yeah.’ And he quickly headed over to the filing cabinets to finish his paperwork.

‘Do you want my opinion?’ the ghost of Robert Fraser asked.

‘Do I have any choice?’ his son responded.

‘He’s a good man.’

Benton Fraser watched his new partner, considering what personal qualities it must have taken for this fellow to put his own life on hold for the sake of someone he would’ve barely met… ‘I think you’re right,’ Fraser said to his father. Which meant that he was doubly honor-bound to continue the ruse – for the sake of Ray’s safety, of course, but also out of respect for this man’s sacrifice.

‘I think you’re right,’ Fraser repeated as he and his father strolled across the station’s parking lot.

‘Of course I’m right,’ his new partner retorted, catching up with frenetic strides. ‘What am I right about?’

Smiling politely, Fraser fell into step beside him, and asked, ‘What kind of food do you prefer?’

♦

Fraser missed his old partner desperately…

His new partner’s real name was Stanley Raymond Kowalski. Apparently Kowalski had always preferred to be known as Ray, though, so Fraser had no further problems calling him that, in person at least. In the privacy of his own mind, however, Fraser tended to refer to the man as Stanley. And then, as they became a little more familiar with each other during a number of shared cases, Stanley, mentally at least, became Stan.

Fraser continued to miss Ray Vecchio, though. He missed everything about him. He missed Ray’s proud, beautiful nose. Indeed, a measurement of Stan’s neater model had been the first piece of forensic evidence Fraser collected, even before the fingerprints, in order to prove the man wasn’t who he claimed to be. Stan’s nose was fully seven millimeters smaller than Ray’s; and while it was handsome, it wasn’t distinctive.

Handsome, yes. Fraser hadn’t been able to help noticing how good Stan looked against a backdrop of flames, as he drove the burning Riviera through Chicago streets… Ironically enough, Ray the confirmed city boy had appeared to most advantage against the dappled greens of the Northern wilderness in which their plane had crashed. Yes, Ray had been at his most beautiful, with his hazel-green eyes sparking alive, concern on his face every time he looked at his partner – and if Fraser had offered a paean to his beauty at the time, he was sure Ray dismissed it as delirium.

Fraser missed Ray’s well-groomed appearance. Stan was forever scruffy; untucked and uncoordinated. His hair was either messy, or it was sticking straight up as if in fright or shock, which detracted from its pleasant honey color. Not that Stan wasn’t appealing in his own way, and, as one lady pointed out, Stan’s face was well-favored. He had a not unattractive narrow body – though Fraser missed Ray’s fine, long, elegant curves…

Enough of this, Fraser reprimanded himself. It was rude and futile, and ultimately destructive, to make comparisons. He honestly didn’t do it in order to find fault with Stan, or even to always rule in Ray’s favor. It was simply that every single one of Stan’s differences only served to remind Fraser of the man who used to stand by his side.

Over time, the sharp pain of missing Ray settled down into a dull ache that Fraser thought would probably be bearable, even in the long term. And he quite enjoyed Stan’s company as they got to know each other a little better. After all, Stan made him laugh on occasion, and Fraser treasured that. ‘I’d like to talk to him,’ Fraser had once said in reference to a suspect. ‘ _Torture_ him?’ Stan had responded; ‘that’s a good idea.’ They’d both chuckled. ‘That’s very funny, Ray.’

Life continued. But there wasn’t a night that went by during which Fraser didn’t dream of Ray. _His_ Ray…

♦

Inspector Meg Thatcher had brought in a psychologist to test the sanity of the Consulate’s staff, and, although Fraser was eventually pronounced ‘acceptable’, Fraser himself had some doubts about the matter. His father had apparently built an office adjoining Fraser’s own office, which was only accessible through Fraser’s closet. Fraser was seriously beginning to wonder if a steady diet of Narnia books in his youth, followed by various severe concussions over the years, might not have unhinged him.

There was little point in wasting time worrying about himself, however, when Stan was feeling so troubled over his ex-wife Stella. It was obvious that Stan still loved her – still _adored_ her, in fact – and Fraser of course empathized with Stan’s hopeless yearning and even his turmoil.

They had just wound up a case by arresting Alderman Orsini, and charging him with a number of offences including fraud. Given that Stella had been dating the alderman, it had been a fraught few days. That evening had been topped off by Fraser and Stan rescuing State’s Attorney Stella Kowalski from a bomb, intended as revenge by a man she’d successfully prosecuted.

Stan had tenderly kissed his ex-wife farewell at her apartment door, and then walked off at Fraser’s side. ‘Do you want to get something to eat, Ray?’ Fraser had offered.

‘No, Fraser, I think I’d like to be alone.’

Understood. Fraser had returned to the Consulate. However, his father was no help when Fraser asked him for advice, and the Inspector obviously agreed that the psychological profile tests needed some refining… ‘Acceptable’, indeed. Unable to leave Stan to suffer through his pain alone, Fraser left Dief guarding the Consulate, and walked to his new partner’s apartment, arriving somewhat after ten o’clock.

Stan opened the door, and glared at him impatiently; but then he stood back, and invited Fraser inside with an abrupt sweep of one arm. ‘What do you want?’

The greeting was somewhat ungracious coming from the man who’d woken Fraser at four o’clock that morning in order to progress the Orsini case, though Fraser didn’t comment on the matter. The minimal lighting was moody, and a poignant song was playing on the high-fidelity sound system; the same song that Stan and Stella had been listening to, perhaps dancing to, back at her apartment. Fraser said, ‘I thought it might be better if you weren’t alone tonight.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

Fraser essayed a tiny shrug, and admitted, ‘I didn’t want to be alone either, Ray.’

‘You don’t have any idea what I’m going through.’ Stan was moving restlessly around his crowded apartment, as if he were caged, trapped within himself. ‘You don’t know what it’s like being me.’ A glare was shot Fraser’s way, though the disgust was aimed somewhere else. ‘It sucks.’

‘I’m sorry, Ray,’ Fraser murmured.

‘I keep trying to do things different. I figured working with you was my chance for a new life, or a change at least, a change of luck. I figured being with Stella again tonight, it was gonna turn out different for once. Like watching _Romeo and Juliet_ – that was Stella’s favorite movie, we sat through it a hundred times – and hoping that _this_ time she’ll wake up before he drinks the poison. But, no, nothing changes. I still suck.’

‘Well, Ray, as a wise man once said, _No matter where you go_ … _there you are_.’

Stan really did glare at him then.

‘You’re right,’ Fraser offered; ‘I don’t know the specifics of what you’re going through, Ray. But I do know about love, and I am well acquainted with loss.’

‘Yeah.’ Stan paced closer, arms folded tightly across his chest, considering this. Perhaps he was glad to worry about someone other than himself for a moment. ‘Yeah, I remember. You said you knew about loss and loneliness.’

‘Yes.’

‘So, tell me your story, Benton.’

Fraser dropped his gaze for a moment. ‘There’s nothing much to tell. It’s not a very entertaining or salutary tale.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

Well, perhaps Fraser did owe his new partner something of the truth. He took a few steps, and gazed out the window at the sodium light and the darkness. His Stetson was in his hands. ‘There have been two people in my life whom I’ve loved,’ Fraser said. ‘Well, to be exact, there _was_ one person I loved, and there _is_ one person I love.’

‘Let me guess. If you loved and lost, then you’re talking about Victoria Metcalfe. I read the file. She was trouble.’

‘Yes. Nevertheless, I did love her.’

‘OK. Past tense.’ Stan edged closer. ‘Who’s the present tense?’

With a stab of pain, Fraser remembered a moment from when he’d first met this stranger: Stan answering Ray’s phone, ‘Vecchio,’ with a smile and a conspiratorial wink for the Mountie…

‘Who is it, Fraser?’

‘I, er –’ Fraser cleared his throat. ‘I can’t tell you.’

‘You got something going with that boss of yours? She’s pretty hot.’

‘No.’

‘Then who is it?’

‘I really can’t tell you.’

‘It isn’t Francesca, or she’d have dashed you down the aisle already. Pretty much the same with Elaine.’ Stan suddenly grinned, and pushed his face up close to Fraser’s. ‘Turnbull?’

Trying not to look affronted, which was rather unfair, Fraser retorted, ‘Certainly not.’

‘Hey…’ A puzzled frown creased Stan’s brow as he withdrew. ‘Hey, how come you’re not calling me Ray anymore? It’s usually yes, Ray, no, Ray, three bags full, Ray.’ Light was dawning. ‘And what was with all the non-gender-specific language, huh? You’re not being PC – you’re being coy. It’s _him_ , isn’t it? It’s Vecchio.’

Fraser just stared at the man, feeling completely undone.

‘Yeah, it’s him,’ Stan said, as if this confirmed something he’d suspected all along. ‘I should have known. This has been hard on you.’

‘Yes.’

‘You know,’ Stan slowly offered, ‘he said… he said I should take care of you.’

Fraser couldn’t help but clutch at any comfort available. ‘He did?’ he asked faintly.

‘Yeah. He said, _Try to take care of him. Be a friend to him. Just watch out for him_.’

Eyes suspiciously damp, Fraser tried a chagrined smile. ‘I believe he thinks I need protecting.’ Ray had often behaved as if he were an over-anxious parent trying to keep up with a beloved but precocious child – that is, when he wasn’t acting like the mere mortal being overawed by the Super Mountie… Whereas, Fraser pondered, Stan had never behaved as if he were overly impressed by Fraser. And while that might be a wiser approach to their relationship, something in Fraser, some scrap of vanity in him, missed Ray for that.

‘Protecting?’ Stan was saying. ‘Well, he must have figured you’d be OK on your own, or he wouldn’t have gone.’

_Or he simply didn’t care that much_ , Fraser surmised.

‘Hey, he cared,’ Stan protested, almost fierce. ‘He cared.’ Then he belatedly realized something more. ‘Hey, Vecchio didn’t know, did he? He doesn’t know you’re in love with him.’

‘No one knows. At least, no one _alive_ knows.’

‘Is that a threat, Benton buddy?’

‘Oh, no,’ Fraser hastily reassured him. ‘No. It’s just that I’ve only told my father…’

‘The one who was murdered?’ Stan asked skeptically. ‘ _That_ father? The father whose murderers you came to Chicago to track down?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘And you’ve remained for reasons that don’t need exploring at this juncture –’

‘– attached as liaison at the Canadian Consulate,’ Fraser filled in, afraid of where this was going.

Sure enough, Stan had fixed him with a clever eye. Sometimes it was rather difficult having a detective for a friend. ‘You stayed for _him_ , didn’t you? You stayed because you love him.’

There seemed little point in denying it. ‘That was certainly one reason, yes.’

‘Meanwhile, you talk to your father even though he’s dead.’

Fraser sketched a grimace. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t get into that just now.’

‘You’re such a freak, Benton Fraser – you’ll tell your dead Dad, but you won’t tell Vecchio himself.’

‘I have reason to believe he’d react… poorly.’

‘Nah. You should tell him.’

Crisply, Fraser asked, ‘Tell him what exactly?’

‘That you love him.’

‘I think not,’ Fraser retorted. He cast about for a straw to clutch at. ‘After all, would you tell Stella?’

‘Of course. I told her tonight. For the hundredth time since we divorced. So…?’

Beleaguered, Fraser shook his head. No.

Stan gave him a wise look. ‘When he comes back… tell him.’

‘No.’

They stood there silently for a time; Fraser staring out the window and not seeing anything, while Stan shifted across to lean against the nearby wall, arms still wrapped around himself as if he were coming apart at the seams. The music was repeating its poignant cycle of songs.

Eventually Fraser said with a hint of wry amusement, ‘I came here tonight to offer you comfort, for I have no good counsel; but I seem to have failed even that.’

Stan lifted his chin in vague acknowledgment, and then shared what he’d been thinking about. ‘I’ve loved her since I was twelve. I’ve loved her all my life, and there was no one else, I never even thought of anyone else. Then we split up. I went kind of crazy for a while. Sowed all those wild oats I’d saved for Stella. I’m not proud of it, and I’m over it now, but that’s what I did. I only have one regret, because I’m usually a try-anything kind of guy, and that’s I never sowed anything with a person of the same gender…’

Fraser looked at him, a little stunned by such a conclusion to such a beginning. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard me.’ Stan met his gaze, direct and clear even in the dim light of the apartment. ‘I’m hitting on you, Benton.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘You know what I’m saying?’

‘Er, yes. I’m familiar with the expression.’ Ray had once explained it to him. ‘You’re propositioning me.’

‘That’s right.’

Fraser was genuinely startled. Though he noticed he wasn’t deflecting Stan’s interest, or denying the possibility of his own cooperation. Apparently the suggestion at least merited his consideration.

Stan was continuing, ‘Just for tonight. Because we’re both lonely. Because we can’t have who we really want.’

‘Do you really think it’s a good idea?’ Fraser asked, making an effort to not crush the brim of his Stetson. ‘We work together, after all…’

‘If there were ever two people who could say it won’t make any difference in the morning, it’s us. We both know what’s what.’

Fraser managed a tiny smile. ‘Are you saying you’ll still respect me?’

Stan let loose with a smirk. ‘No more than I ever have, freak.’ There was a hint of fondness in the epithet for the first time. ‘Buddy,’ Stan offered. ‘Benton buddy.’

A moment passed. As he listened to the mournful mesmerizing music, an idea occurred to Fraser. A way of stalling for time while he thought some more about Stan’s proposition, and became used to the notion. Fraser placed his Stetson on a nearby shelf, stood taller in his dress reds, and asked, ‘Perhaps you would do me the honor of this dance?’

The man looked doubtful for a moment, so Fraser stepped closer, and lifted his arms into the position that indicated he would take on the woman’s role. ‘All right,’ said Stan.

And they were dancing, waltzing slowly… All of Stan’s inelegance and angst fell away from him on the dance floor – Fraser had already noticed as much when the man danced with Stella, and he was glad to discover that the same applied with Fraser in his arms.

‘You’re good at this,’ Stan commented, surprised.

‘There were very few female dance partners available when I was a child,’ Fraser explained. ‘I learned both roles so that I could dance with my friend Innusiq.’

‘Yeah, but I mean…’ Stan spun them both around; and Fraser followed him effortlessly, for Stan was an excellent dancer and obviously knew about taking the lead. ‘I mean, it’s easy with you. I never found that with anyone but Stella.’

‘We’re dancing in the sky…’ Fraser murmured.

They gazed into each other’s eyes, beginning to weave a mutually sensual spell. Fraser wondered if Stan’s landlady was sitting below, as hypnotized by the rhythm of Stan’s light feet as he was. For the first time, he entertained the notion that this was going to happen: Benton Fraser was, perhaps, going to make love with Stanley Raymond Kowalski.

Unfortunately that was the moment Stan chose to say, ‘You haven’t called me Ray since we began talking about this stuff.’

‘Ah. I’m sorry. It’s –’

‘– difficult, yeah. But, you know, you can if you want to. Call me Ray. I won’t mind.’

Fraser stared at him, knowing what Stan was offering. ‘No, that’s hardly fair. Or useful.’

‘Not that I’m gonna be calling you Stella.’

‘Of course.’

‘Say it, buddy, say Ray.’

‘If I thought you were asking me to call you by your own name, I would do so. Instead, you’re being kind. So, if I need to call you anything tonight, perhaps you’ll allow me to call you Stan.’

‘All right.’ Stan looked amused, even a little distant. But then he spun Fraser around in a foot-sure whirl, and, when they stilled again, Stan leaned in closer for a kiss…

It was a remarkably pleasant kiss. Fraser lost himself for a while in the complexities of lips and teeth and tongues. Stan was as excellent a kisser as he was a dancer; Fraser supposed Stella was the reason for that. The two of them continued to move, Stan leading him in a gentle swaying shuffle, spinning slowly round. Then Stan eased closer, adding the whisper of thigh against thigh and hip against hip to their embrace. Certain parts of Fraser were responding with great interest; and Stan no doubt knew that, for he finally slipped his arms around Fraser, and began hugging rather than dancing with him…

When the kiss eventually broke, Fraser met the man’s serious gaze, wondering if he would let himself be seduced. He whispered, ‘Perhaps I should go.’

‘Do you _want_ to go?’

A long moment passed, while their two bodies communed in rhythmic murmurs. ‘I don’t know.’ Fraser wasn’t used to being indecisive. ‘We should feel free to do what we want. We’ve been honest with each other about where our loyalties lie. Neither of the other parties is attainable. We’re consenting adults. There’s no logical reason why we shouldn’t.’

‘No reason at all.’ Stan leaned forward, pressed a wisp of a kiss to Fraser’s lips. ‘So, what do you want, Benton?’

Another pause, before Fraser admitted, ‘I don’t know.’

‘Tell me what you like doing. I’m new to this stuff, remember?’

‘Well, so am I, in many ways.’ Fraser withstood Stan’s sudden scrutiny. ‘I haven’t… sown many wild oats.’

Stan closed his eyes for a moment – and Fraser realized how much he did actually want this, because he became very afraid he’d just scared Stan off. If Fraser were to confess that Stan would be only the second person he’d ever made love with, the whole enterprise would take on a greater significance than he assumed Stan wanted to attach to it.

But eventually Stan looked at him again, and said, ‘Leaving _him_ out of this, you must have daydreams.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then let’s live them out.’

Summoning all his courage, Fraser whispered, ‘Well, frottage has always appealed to me.’

‘We’re in the middle of this,’ Stan blustered, ‘and you’re talking about _cheese_?’

Fraser eyed the man suspiciously, but concluded that Stan was serious. There were times when Fraser sorely missed Ray’s vocabulary. Although it would have been even worse if Stan was a better fit for Ray Vecchio… ‘No, not _fromage_. Frottage.’ Fraser was endeavoring not to blush, but not succeeding very well. Perhaps the night masked him. ‘Rubbing our bodies together, particularly our –’

‘I get it.’

‘– to achieve orgasm.’

‘Uh, no.’ Stan was just standing there now, holding Fraser loosely, and gazing off over his shoulder. ‘Look, why don’t you just jerk me off. And kiss me some more. Then I’ll do the same for you.’

The mood between them seemed so fragile. Fraser was very close to making a few weak excuses, and leaving.

Stan looked at him again. Smiled. The mood brightened a little. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

‘ _Your_ bed?’ Fraser faltered.

‘Yeah, _my_ bed. I’m not a teenager anymore.’

Curiosity running riot – exactly _what_ had Stan and Stella gotten up to as teenagers, and _where_? – Fraser let himself be led by the hand into the adjoining bedroom, where Stan took him into a firm embrace while Fraser reached out to close the door behind them.

♦

It had been powerfully simple and powerfully good. Afterwards, Stan lay in a sprawl beside Fraser, warm skin nudging contentedly up against him. ‘Thank you,’ Fraser whispered. ‘You’ve been very kind.’ He had no idea of the etiquette of these situations. ‘Perhaps I should go now.’

‘Nah, stay the night, Benton buddy,’ Stan mumbled, apparently already half asleep. ‘Then we can do that breakfast date thing…’

‘I thought breakfast dates were stupid, Ray.’

That earned him a pleasant though unfocussed smile; either despite or because of the fact that Fraser meant Ray Kowalski rather than Ray Vecchio. ‘Not the way we’ll do it. We’ll drink some coffee, we’ll try some of that _fromage_ thing…’

‘Yes, Ray,’ Fraser said happily, though he had no illusions that this would develop into anything more, and no real wish for it either.

Within moments Stan was asleep, his breathing deep and peaceful. Fraser watched him, appreciating the man’s handsomeness even while he yearned for Ray’s beauty. Eventually Fraser carefully eased himself away. He spent a few minutes retrieving his clothing and the other articles of his uniform, and folding them neatly; then he went to gaze out the window, examining the city’s harsh night.

Ray was out there somewhere. _His_ Ray. Fraser, who wasn’t a religious man, prayed every day, every hour, every minute for his former partner’s safety. One day, if Ray’s abilities and wisdom and luck held out – one day Ray Vecchio would return to his old life. _When he comes back_ … _tell him_. And perhaps Stan was right, perhaps Fraser should take the risk of telling Ray about everything he felt for him.

Fraser smiled a little, and headed back to the bed. It was strange, but wonderful, to have somebody to curl up with. Soon Fraser was succumbing to a gentle sleep, and his last thought was a promise to himself…

… _When he comes back_.

♦


End file.
